


Part VI: The Prisoners

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [21]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, False Accusations, Gen, Marriage, Pregnancy, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2236275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hisana realizes the extent of her confinement. Rukia and Renji discuss a jailbreak. Byakuya attempts to spare Rukia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part VI: The Prisoners

**Part VI: When the Law is Lawless**

_How many priests_  
 _How many morning glories_  
 _Have perished under the pine_  
 _Eternal as law?_

_–Matsuo Basho_

**_A few days later..._ **

* * *

 

**The Prisoners**

The air is thick with the scent of freshly clipped grass, honeydew, and pine. The crisp morning staves off the heat, but it will not last much longer, Hisana is afraid. Prickles of what will surely be a long,  _hot_  day are already beginning to tear through the cool breeze.

Hisana sits quietly with a smooth brow, but her eyes are quizzical. Her gaze centers on the middle distance. There is a hint of  _something_ , a flickering something. It is intermittent, and it reminds her of the ripple a drop of water makes as it hits a puddle of water. The ripple appears some distance away, near the boundary of the estate.

Hisana has a hypothesis. It is a feeling. It begins as a slight bubble of a thought then it grabs her, enveloping her entire attention. Briefly, her heart skips a beat, a hard stop leaves her momentarily reaching for her next breath, but she recovers with poise.

No one else notices.

No, the girls are practicing their archery. The elder cousins sit, waiting for their turn, giggling and gossiping about  _whatever_  occupies the minds of young silly women.

Asagao, however, sits close to Hisana. Her eyes are always wandering, frequently darting to Hisana's direction, where they linger a moment or two. Usually, Asagao's glances go undetected, but, Hisana suddenly feels exposed as she inhales a shaky breath.

"All well, milady?" Asagao's voice is low, private, and she smothers the tail end of her question with a slow sip of her tea.

Hisana forces a smile, her eyes squeeze close, and she blushes. "Oh, no, nothing." Her voice trills up a few notes, and she waves her hand in front of her face.

Asagao lifts a brow, but she stifles her skepticism with another sip of tea. Swallowing, she continues, "I imagine you must be growing weary as your time approaches, Lady Kuchiki."

Hisana nods. It is an  _understatement_. Nothing pacifies the fiery anguish that burns the muscles in her back, and her mood has certainly become volatile over the last few weeks.

 _No wonder the Lord stays in the barracks,_  she thinks wryly to herself. She doesn't  _blame_  him. If she could, she would hide from herself, too.

However, Hisana is beginning to wonder if her moods are the true cause behind Byakuya's sudden and complete  _absence_. She has a few  _suspicions_  of alternative motives, none of which exactly please her. Although, to be frank,  _nothing_  pleases her at the moment, particularly that ever noticeable ripple.

"Would milady like to partake?" It is Aoi, bow firmly in hand and smile stretching across her lips. She gives a small limp wave. "It is fun!"

Asagao shoots Aoi a particularly excoriating glare. "Do not pester the Lady with such trifling invitations." One look and it is clear Asagao is referring to Hisana's very  _pregnant_  condition.

Aoi's cheeks turn a bright scarlet. "I am so sorry." She bows deeply. "Milady must be feeling unwell."

Before Asagao can upbraid Aoi for the second time, Hisana intervenes with a small smile and a gentle, "I would love to try." With some inelegant ado (most of which is carefully hidden under layers of fabric), Hisana stands and takes a few steps toward Aoi. "Please forgive my aim," she begins, taking the bow Aoi offers her, "I have never been a particularly skilled marksmen."

"Oh?" Aoi's brows spring up at this. "They teach archery in the Third District?"

"Yes," Hisana murmurs, hiding her agitation at her poor showing in archery under a heavy breath. "Unfortunately, I have no natural inclination toward the sport."

Aoi gives a sharp twittering giggle at this. "Don't worry, milady. I'm not so great, either."

Stringing an arrow, Hisana eyes the target, but, at the last minute, her gaze flicks up. Her aim goes wild, straight into the sky. At great speed. the arrow hurtles toward that infernal ripple.

With eyes locked on the sky, Hisana waits with baited breath as her suspicions are confirmed.

The arrow disintegrates into a thousand tiny particles once it hits the barrier.

_Lord Byakuya…._

* * *

Rukia sits perfectly still, like a flower vase, in the small chair situated in the middle of her cell. The air is cold and biting. Her soul is equally as cold and biting. A thick veil of shame, doubt, and emotional  _agony_  hammer her central nervous system, unwinding each nerve and summarily setting each neuron on  _fire_. The popping and clicking of the electrical impulses that fire under her skin knock her slightly off kilter, but the sensations keep her tethered to reality. A painful and torturous reality.

All she knows are six harsh facts, and these six harsh facts play in a continual loop in her head: She is a prisoner. She is facing the charges of high crimes and treason. She will likely be sentenced to a harsh and disgraceful future. She is a burden—a stain—on the Kuchiki name. She has dishonored her brother and sister. Her actions are not only disgraceful, dishonorable, and improper for a Shinigami of her standing,  _but_  she has unwittingly dragged her closest friend into her downward spiral.

 _Renji_.

With the word, her mind immediately conjures the horrors of her—no,  _their_ —arrest. An arrest at the hands of her own  _brother_. Never before had she seen Brother so grave in carrying out his duty. There was a solemnity to it—one that was very uncharacteristic for Brother, who usually completes his duties with the utmost regard. But, no. Not then. The duty and honor that she has come to expect of him were gone. What remained was a shell of a solider, one who appeared beaten down and bound by rules.

Even more uncharacteristic for Brother was the fact that he pulled a punch.

Ichigo should have been given a death sentence according to both Renji and Brother. Ichigo very nearly  _did_  receive a death sentence at Brother's hands. But, in a rare act of  _mercy_ , Brother refused the killing stroke; instead, he merely  _incapacitated_  Ichigo.

Why?

The question, the night, and Brother's actions have plagued her mind for the last few days. She has played each scene, each movement, in her mind's eye over and over again with the fidelity of a video recording. Yet, despite her scrutiny, she cannot discern  _why_  Brother spared Ichigo's life.  _Why_  Brother hesitated.

She pushes her weight against the back of her chair, and she swallows. Her throat is parched. Her mouth feels cottony. It is hard to breathe. The air is thick, suffocating.

The air is  _thick_  with  _questions_.

Rukia is certain that Brother's hesitation was not without  _purpose_. Neither Brother nor Sister acts without  _purpose_. Hell, none of the captains acts without design, one that has been planned, but one that is never articulated for fear of exposure.

It's like a puzzle, sometimes.

And, Rukia only has a few of the pieces, none of which gives her the  _slightest_  of glimpses of the  _whole_  picture. Whatever is being planned is surely done in the dark.

She only wishes she  _knew_. She wishes she knew  _what_ , exactly, the Central 46 suspected of her. She wishes she knew  _what_  her sentence is. She wishes she knew a way out of this.

All of these desires, however, go unnoticed. At least, for the last week, she has taken residence in cell 4 of the Sixth's jail. The dank floors, the rusting bars, and the cold stone walls have proven uninspiring company. Occasionally, when the guards are between shifts, she converses with Renji, who is one cell over.

He doesn't seem particularly perturbed.

Pissed off? Yes, Renji is most definitely pissed off. But, he is a  _confident_  ilk of  _pissed off_. He sees the  _light_  at the end of this hellhole. He thinks the brass will set them free. He truly believes Brother will spare her, at the very least.

"Any word?" Renji's half-hearted grumbling barely penetrates the thick stones that divide their cells.

Rukia shakes her head. She knows he can't see her, but her heart stutters in her chest. Sometimes it's hard to say what the heart wishes weren't true, but, after a long breath, she answers. "None."

A small groan escapes her friend, and she can almost imagine him throwing his weight against the wall. She hears some rustling of fabric and feet against the grimy floor, and she waits for him to settle from his agitation.

"It'll take time, Rukia."

She knows he's trying to assuage her weary mind, but, the way he says the words, it sounds like he is trying to pacify his own tortured thoughts. And,  _cripes_ , if Renji's at his wits' end, where should she be? Sobbing in a corner of the jail?

"You, know, it's a machine, Rukia. It's a conflicted machine—the Gotei and the Central 46. Lots and lots of paperwork to go through. I bet that's what's taking so long."

She bites her bottom lip. Her top teeth snag against the sensitive flesh, finding a small dip, and tearing it open. The metallic flavor of blood saturates her mouth and plays a bitter dance against her tongue. She swallows it, however. She swallows the blood. She swallows her tears. She swallows her hope.

If Brother has fought the "machine"—as Renji calls it—then she would have news by  _now_  surely. The noble families, especially one of the Four Noble Houses, could pull rank to pardon a member. But, there has been  _nothing_ , just radio silence on the part of her brother.

"Even if Captain Kuchiki's hands are tied, your sister knows how it works. She particularly…." Renji doesn't finish the sentence. Rukia can fill in the blank. Sister is crafty; she has never been one to hesitate at the opportunity to bend the rules in order to further her goals of fairness and justice.

Sister doesn't know, however. Of this fact, Rukia is certain. There is no way that Brother would allow this sort of scandal to pierce the fabric that is Kuchiki Manor, not with Sister's pregnancy. Sister is due at any moment, and he would not want to stress her mind at such a crucial time.

While Rukia concurs with Renji's assessment—that Sister would bend the rules and call upon her experience and contacts among the Chambers without a second thought—she is contented to know that Brother protects Sister from this news. Not only is it disgraceful, but Rukia doesn't want to complicate a moment in her sister's life that should be  _happy_.

"I see, Renji." Rukia doesn't have the heart to tell Renji that he's wrong about  _everything_. It would be cruel, and, the last person that deserves her cruelty is Renji. Not after the heroics he pulled before his arrest.

"It'll be alright, Rukia. You'll see." He pauses before he can continue, and he chuckles. It is soft; it is bitter; it is ironic, but she hears it all the same. "You know," he begins, smothering the urge to continue but failing, "I really thought that when I wound up in jail that it would be for something  _bad_ , you know?"

A small, wry grin lengthens Rukia's lips. Yep. She thought the same thing.

"I mean, after all the stunts we pulled in Inuzuri. We should've been  _buried under the jail_."

She adds, chuckling to herself, "Yeah. We never killed anyone, though." She keeps the  _unlady-like_  noises to herself, and, in the process, her voice takes on an acerbic quality.

"Came close," he teases, under his breath.

She partakes in another light-hearted giggle. "Still never jailed."

"Ah," Renji says in a heavy breath, the kind that lingers in the air and seemingly makes Rukia's nerves quiet, "but we were  _caught_ several times."

She nods.

That is correct. Members of their little band of no-good-thieving-monsters had been in the clutches of many an angry proprietor, she and Renji included. "Yeah,  _but_ —"

_But the shopkeepers were never very sophisticated._

_But the shopkeepers never really seemed that angry._

_But the shopkeepers were never very powerful._

"—but we always managed to escape," Renji interjects, refusing to succumb to the silence that begins to needle between them.

Rukia's smile dims, and she exhales a heavy breath through her nose.  _Yeah, but_ …. She doesn't want to admit it. He's partly correct, partly wrong. While,  _true_ , they did  _always manage to escape_ , that's not the half of it. Not  _now_ , at least, and escape isn't an option.

"We could break outta here, no problem." He's so confident. His voice just exudes it, and, briefly, she wonders if he's being facetious.

Just in case he isn't, she turns to the wall as if she can see him on the other side. "Renji!" Her voice is sharp, rebuking, but there is a certain quality—one that she is sure he didn't miss—that prompts him to continue as if the idea isn't pure insanity.

"Seriously, Rukia. We could do it. It wouldn't be hard to overpower the Sixth's guards. Your Brother hasn't exactly put the A team on lookout, and, well," he pauses, probably  _just realizing_  that her very  _apparent_  lack of reiatsu signals her spiritual confinement. "And, well, I'm a Vice Captain. It'd be easy for me, and I'd let you out."

"Renji!" This time her voice drops to a harsh whisper.

He has lost his mind. His whole damn mind. Why would he even say such a thing? Sure, there's no one around,  _but_. "What do you propose we do once we escape,  _Renji_? It's not like before. It's not like when we were children and the villains of our games were fat, lazy, stupid, and inept. We'd be found in a matter of  _minutes_."

Silence.

Deafening silence fills her ears. She hates to admit it, but she was  _expecting_  Renji to lob a barbed retort her way, something springing and boastful. Yet, he doesn't.

She imagines him on the other side of the wall with his back pressed against the cold stone and his lanky legs sprawled out across the damp dirt floor. He's probably leaning back, head tilting up and pressed against the wall, and eyes staring into the small barred window.

"You're right." His concession sinks her heart, right to the pit of her stomach.

"Renji," she begins, but her throat tightens around his name. Suddenly, she feels like she is gagging. A cold piercing breath lodges in her throat. She heaves forward, and, grabbing at her neck, she tries to pull air. She can't. All that comes from her are small dry coughs.

 _Brother_.

Indeed, in her current state—stripped of her spiritual abilities—her brother's  _presence_ , even repressed, suffocates her. In a heartbeat, the world seemingly tilts on its axis. Everything gets a little hazy, a little heavier, and a little harder to process.

Between hacking on her own breath, Rukia manages to greet Byakuya at the threshold of the cellblock. "Brother."

She hasn't seen him for  _days_. Even though her shame cuts her to the quick and marks her heart, she can't help but find him a sight for sore eyes.

He stands before her a paragon of noble virtue. His back is straight. His shoulders are level. Even his head is neither too high nor too low. Byakuya Kuchiki appears perfectly  _appropriate_  as he acknowledges her with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head.

"I have come to deliver your charges." Brother's voice is soft, but strong. It's the voice that she has come to know and even  _relish_  when they are on the training field. Now, however, it seems out of place. He's handing down  _charges_ —charges for  _crimes_ —not instructing her on her form and position.

Then, she sees it. It is a mere flash, but it is there in his slate gray eyes all the same: Regret. The stern Kuchiki gaze begins to tatter if he meets her stare for too long. It begins with a small crack in his austere mien, but this crack only portends the crumbling of his resolve.

Swiftly, he averts his eyes to Renji, who he also acknowledges with a small nod of his head. Renji, however, remains completely silent. Rukia can hear a slight rustling of fabric, and she imagines Renji is making his indignation  _clear_ , but he bests his tongue, which is an  _improvement_  from when they were kids.

"Rukia Kuchiki, your charges are treason and sedition. The reason for these charges include: remaining in the World of the Living for longer than the proscribed time imposed on all Shinigami, and bestowing your spiritual abilities upon a member of the living." He holds a paper in his hand. It is almost unnoticeable, but Rukia observes the creases forming in the sheet with each breath her brother inhales. He masks his displeasure  _well_ , but there it is, simmering right beneath the surface of his well-crafted and –polished veneer.

"Thank you, Brother." She lowers her head, eyes trailing to the ground. There is a sob building in the back of her throat, but she masters her shame in time. He doesn't need to know of her burden. He didn't need to bother himself with such a trifling task as reading her charges. There are more important matters to occupy her brother's thoughts; she is certain. But, he came, himself. No subordinate. No brusque tenor or harsh words.

In fact, he appears contrite, or, as contrite as Brother ever lets on.

Bowing his head low, far too low of a man of his rank, Byakuya excuses himself, but, before he parts, he turns and glimpses Rukia. It is a brief parting look, but trapped in that stare are words, important words.

Words that go unspoken.

* * *

Byakuya stands at a crossroad.

He is a man who neither stands idly nor is he a man who contemplates the meaning and nature of crossroads. Yet, there he is, smack dab in the middle. To his left is the Seireitei proper, with its many divisions and amusements. To his right is the path to his estate.

He has traversed the roads from the city to this bucolic oasis by foot, not flashstep or spells. There was purpose in his step when he departed the Sixth, and, while his heart wavered in his chest, his mind was fixed, but, with each step closer, he began to slowly unravel. As soon as he arrives at the fork, he stops dead. It is instinctual, like an animal skidding to a halt before taking a header off a ledge.

Thoughts cease to form in his head. The once swirling petals of his former plans fall like tiny anvils. A cold, unfamiliar wave of uncertainty washes over him, flooding  _through_  him and chilling his blood. He has never known this sort of indecision. It is thorough, it grips him with a steely hand, and it sends tendrils of uncertainty spinning through his thoughts until he is left with nothing but  _doubt_.

It is a routine, he tells himself. A force of habit. After work, he returns to the comfort of his home, but, as of late, it's been a  _struggle_  to force one foot down the trail to his manor. His heart paralyzes him every time. Panic sets his muscles, making them rigid, unmovable.

He cannot go, his heart tells him.

His wife will be there. She will share her smiles and sweet conversations freely; she will dress him in fine silk, tend to his worn body, and soothe his ruffled state, just as she always does and always has done. But, there will be something  _awry_. The glances she shares with him have become guarded. Her smiles have grown strained. There are questions begging for thread, thread that he will not provide.

He cannot tell her that Rukia is in jail. He cannot tell her of the part he played in Rukia's imprisonment. He cannot let her know of the seriousness of Rukia's crime. He cannot tell her that he tries, endlessly, to draft arguments to appeal the Central 46's decision.

 _Nine_.

He knows that number well. It is etched into his mind, creating a very deep wrinkle. It rattles around in his bones.  _Nine._ Yes, he has penned  _nine_  separate responses, he has submitted each and every one of those documents to the Central 46, and he waits, and waits, and waits.

 _Nothing_.

Not a receipt. Not a rejection. Not a trial date. Not even a hearing. The Chambers remain dead silent, which is  _unusual_. Alarmingly unusual.

Byakuya shuts his eyes for a moment and exhales a breath through his nose. What else can he do? He has tried every possible  _legal_  avenue. He has requested a pardon. He has asked for the proceedings to be dismissed under noble immunity. He has argued for an appeal.

He is a prisoner to the procedures and processes of Soul Society's legislative and judicial organs. And, despite following each proscription to its letter, there is  _nothing_  he can show for his efforts. He has no redeemable result.

Opening in his eyes, he lifts his head and stares down the path to his estate. His heart is heavy, so heavy. It barely beats as he watches the trees bend against the dry wind, and he submits to the powerful memory of his wife and their  _future_.

Desperately, he wishes he could force his feet to follow the path where his heart resides, but, as he takes a step, he feels the invisible chains of his upbringing begin to snap into position and lock him in place.

"Hisana."


End file.
